


The Theory Of Polyamory And It's Real World Applications

by PrettyPurpleInk



Category: Death Note
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - College/University, Arguments And Resolution, Asexual Male Character, Asexual Nate, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Cuddling, Fluff, Genderqueer Character, How have I not tagged that yet??, M/M, More tags to be added, Multi, Polyamory, boys loving boys, implications of past abuse, m/m/m relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-03-08 23:18:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13468704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyPurpleInk/pseuds/PrettyPurpleInk
Summary: They'll say you are bador perhaps you are mador at least youshould stay undercover.Your mind must be bareif you would dareto think you can lovemore than one lover.— David Rovics





	1. Chapter 1

  


"What the hell is his problem? He just walks in and loses it! Over nothing! How is this not bothering you?!"

"He's stressed, Matt. That's how he vents. I don't like it, but that's just how he gets sometimes. It'll pass."

"Are you not hearing how this sounds?!"

"I know exactly how it sounds, Matt."

"Then how are you okay with it?!"

"Because how it _sounds_ , and how it _is_ , are two _very different things_. Now, I suggest you take a deep breath–"

" _Me?!_ Wha–"

"Yes, _you_. Take a deep breath, and lower your voice. If you want to talk about this, we'll talk, but if you're trying to rile me up to get me to argue with you, you're wasting your time. I don't do shouting matches. If you want to yell at someone and be yelled at — goodness knows why you would — then go find Mihael, I'm sure he'll indulge you; but I won't, I won't fight fire with fire."

  


I watch his throat bob as he swallows, watch him suck his lower lip into his mouth and hold it between his teeth, watch his eyes shifting…watch his shoulders rise and fall with the heavy breath that rushes all at once from his nose, watch his lip, bitten bright red, slide free from the grip of his teeth…

"I wanna talk," he says tensely, "but I gotta take a walk or somethin'… Can I come back? Is that okay?"

"Of course."

"With him, too?" He tips his head vaguely toward the bedroom. I shouldn't assume that Mihael will have calmed down by the time Matt returns, but I nod regardless. "Then I'll be back in a little bit."

"Take my keys, if you like." Matt nods, mutters something that sounds like thanks, and then he's tugging on a pair of sneakers, snatching my keys from the side table, and walking out the front door.

  


A few minutes later, I find myself standing outside the bedroom. I imagine that I can hear Mihael inside — his breathing, or maybe his feet on the carpet as he paces, but he's too quiet.

A dusty-looking print of a shoe sole has joined the littered scuff marks low on the door. Another battle scar.

I raise a hand, knock lightly on the wood, and before I can call to him, he's calling out to me, "Not now," his voice tight.

So I tell him, "I'm here if you need me," and return to the living room, resettling myself on the floor, work-in-progress essay glaring at me from the laptop screen as I resume construction of The (paper) Golden Gate Bridge.

  


Matt's back before long, smelling of cigarette smoke, his hair disheveled and freckled cheeks pinkened from the wind. He smiles at me, a nervous-looking little curve of his lips. "Hey."

"How was your walk?"

"It was okay… Is he still in there?"

I look toward the mouth of the hallway, maybe hoping that Mihael will appear there. "Yeah. I think he just needs some time alone. I'm sure he'll be out soon."

Matt follows my gaze, pinching his lip between his teeth before turning back to me. "So, maybe we could talk now…?"

  


"…Never? You're not just saying that?" Matt asks, fingers stilling on the paper he's folding.

I set my finished rose aside, looking up at him to find him watching me. "Never. And I know he never will."

"How? How can you know that, Nate?"

"Because he promised." The brunet frowns at me, opening his mouth to speak, but closes it as I continue, "He promised that if he ever, for a moment, thought of laying a hand on me, he'd leave; if he thought I was unsafe with him, he'd leave. And I promised that I'd let him go, that I ever felt unsafe, I'd tell him to leave."

Matt stares down at his hands, stroking the half-formed rose he holds. "…And you're okay with that," he says eventually, "with him venting like he does? And _I'm_ supposed to be okay with it?"

"I don't like it, and I suppose I'm not _really_ okay with it, but I _understand_ it… It's something you'll have to talk to him about."

  


Matt sits with me for a while longer — leaning back against the couch, head tipped back to rest on the seat — before lurching to his feet. "Mind if I smoke? If I stick my head outta the window?"

"As long as it's just your head." He smiles crookedly, small but genuine, and my chest feels lighter for seeing it.

For a few minutes, the smell of smoke filters thinly into the room, carried in by the cold air. Goosebumps rise over my arms and prickle along my spine. Finally, the window thunks closed and then Matt's walking past me, disappearing into the mouth of the hallway.

  


  


  


"…n't quit fidgeting, I'm gonna kick you outta this bed."

"I'll stop if you cuddle me."

"I'm not cuddling you, you're too hot. I'll get all sweaty and gross."

"Just for a little bit? Pleeease? C'mon. Wrap me up in those big, strong arms 'a yours."

Mihael laughs through his nose…then sighs. "C'mere, Idiot." There's the sound of shuffling, a happy hum, then a half-hearted warning, "The second I tell you I'm too hot, you better move."

"Uh huh."

"I mean it."

"Shhh, sleepy time, n- OW! No pinching!"

"Sh. Sleepy time." I can vividly imagine the smug little smirk on Mihael's face. Matt mutters something at him, fidgets a bit, and sighs as he settles.

I linger outside the room a long moment before finally deciding to return to the living room — this is their moment, not _ours_ , but _theirs_ , and the thought of interrupting it feels wrong somehow.

 _In a while_ , I tell myself, _when they've fallen asleep, I'll go back and join them_.

  


But I don't. Instead, I work until my eyes are sore from staring at the laptop screen, and make the mistake of laying down on the couch, _just for a minute, just to rest them_.

  


I'm not sure how long it's been, when I notice a careful tinkling tapping, like a spoon against the edge of a bowl…and the smell of warm sugar and peanut butter…and a voice, "Hey, c'mon. Wakey wakey. I wanna kiss your face, but you can't tell me it's okay if you're sleeping."

I blink my eyes open, frowning as they adjust to the brightness of the room. The curtains are only parted a couple inches, and it's a rainy, winter morning, but it's still brighter than I'd like.

Matt's leaning against the back of the couch, braced on his forearms, with a bowl in his hands and a smile on his face. I close my eyes to better ignore the way he watches me as I stretch. "Want me to leave this with you?" He asks, tapping the bowl with a finger as I'm yawning.

"No, I'm up…and I wouldn't mind that kiss if you're still offering."

  


As I shuffle into the kitchen, hands warm from the bowl of oatmeal, cheek warm from the gentle press of Matt's lips, Mihael looks up from his own breakfast to tell me off; "I had to sleep with your cuddle-buddy glomped onto me all night—"

"—You loved it—" Matt interjects, filling up a bowl of his own from the pot on the stove.

"—Where were you?"

"Working." I sit myself in the chair beside him, sparing a thought to hope that Matt hadn't already claimed the seat. "Did you miss me?"

"Maybe…" He leans in then, slowly, giving me more than enough time to move away, tracing a finger down my jaw when I don't, and curls his finger under my chin. "Or maybe I just think it's unfair for you to adopt a cuddler, and _not cuddle him_ ," he says, smoothing his thumb over my smiling lips.

"Oh, _I_ adopted him, did I? Well then, maybe you'd care to explain all the not-so-secret-sex the two of you keep sneaking away to have?"

"Well, when three people have strong, positive feelings each other," Matt starts, laughter in his voice; Mihael's hand falls away from my face as I turn halfway around in my chair to look at the brunet, "The two that have an interest in, and enjoy sex sneak away to bone — out of respect for the other, who does not — and then come back to cuddle with him, and enjoy their afterglow." He grins at me, one of those big, dopey, _damn I'm funny_ grins, and I can't help but smile back.

  


  


"I know you're already way ahead on your paper," Mihael says, adding a fourth teaspoon of sugar to his coffee as I'm washing dishes. Matt's taking his turn in the shower. "So what's the real reason you didn't come to bed? …Are you mad at me?"

I turn my head to look at him, wishing my hands were dry so that I could smooth down the little cowlick that he's somehow yet to notice. "No; I just wanted to give you two some time alone together."

The blond frowns. "It wasn't… _like that_ , if that's what you thought. We just talked–"

"Mihael, Sweetheart, it's okay. I really did intend to join you. I decided to work for a little while longer, to give the two of you some more time, but I got carried away, and ended up falling asleep… I wasn't upset with anyone, I didn't feel unwelcome, nothing like that. Okay? Honestly…" Hands hovering over the sink, I turn toward him, leaning into his space a little. "Kiss me?"

Careful of the cup in his hand, Mihael ducks his head, leaving the last inch for me to close. His lips are coffee-hot, press too softly and too soon, he shifts to pull away; I tip my chin up higher, catching them again, and he's smiling as he brings a hand up to cradle my jaw, kissing me slowly — soft, lingering presses of dry lips that have me sighing after him as he parts from me again.

His thumb brushes my cheek, his voice quiet as he asks, "Sure everything's okay?"

I nod as I'm blinking my eyes open to meet his gaze. "Yes. I promise."

Finally looking a little more at ease, Mihael smiles, the slight curl of his lips looking both grateful and apologetic. "…No couch tonight, okay? Please?" Carefully, he bumps his forehead against mine, lightly resting there. "Matt's a furnace; I almost burned to death last night."

I earn myself another kiss when I agree, and Mihael rushes off to hurry Matt out of the shower before either of them run the risk of being late.

  


  


  


I walk into the apartment that evening to find Matt upside down on the sofa, legs crossed at his shins against its back. With one hand, he's feeding himself dry cereal from the bowl balanced on his chest.

Mihael sits beside him with his legs bent to bridge over the brunet's torso, holding his other hand and neatly painting his fingernails a softly sparkling dark blue.

"Hey, Baby! Want some cereal?" With a ridiculous wiggle of his eyebrows, Matt sets a single Cheerio on his now-closed mouth.

I'm tired, and the idea of laying right there on the floor is _very_ appealing, but I cross the room anyway, and pluck the Cheerio from Matt's lips, kneeling down to replace it with a brush of my own lips.

Ring finger finished, Mihael looks up; "Sorry about smell. I'll just do one hand for now."

"It's okay." It is, for now. Soon, the smell will give me a headache, but I don't care enough to think that far ahead. "Need a nap." I don't know why I tell them, when really, it's an issue only I can solve.

I put the Cheerio in my mouth and leave it to melt on my tongue, feeling too lazy to chew it. My backpack falls from my shoulder to the floor with a heavy thump, and careful not to jostle him, I slouch forward until my head rests beside Mihael's hip; in moments, his fingers are making gentle scratching motions in my hair, and I feel a little like a cat. "Why don't you go lay down?"

"Mm-mm."

"Do you want to lay here?"

"Nhhm."

"I'm not sure what that means…it sounds like a no. Is that a no?"

"Sleepy," I mumble. "Just wanna close my eyes for a minute…ten minutes…th'n'll do m' paper…"

I hear what sounds like (and probably _is_ ) a handful of cereal falling to the floor, and Matt curses under his breath; Mihael snorts a laugh, muttering a fond "Loser," at him, and I feel a smile slip onto my face.

  


I don't think I fell asleep, but I must've zoned out because Mihael's fingers aren't in my hair anymore, and the TV is quieter, and the smell of nail polish isn't so strong. "Still awake?" I manage to nod, but the hum I was trying for comes out as a sigh. "Good. Get up here, we're gonna sleep. Everything can wait half an hour."

I want to argue, but I really _don't_ , so I shrug off my jacket and slip my shoes off, and climb up onto the couch.

Mihael lays with his head on an armrest, and settles one hand between my shoulders as I lay between his legs, using his chest as my pillow. Matt's squeezed himself between us and the sofa, laying his head low on my back, his arm slung over my thighs, Mihael's other hand is most likely in his hair; I don't open my eyes to check, but I assume Matt's glasses are folded on the coffee table.

  


Half an hour is too long, I should really start my assignment before my notes fade into obscurity…but I can hear Mihael's heartbeat, and feel Matt's breathing, and… _And…? Sleep. Comfy…and warm…sleep_ …

  


  


When consciousness stirs, Matt's weight is gone, and Mihael's voice is rumbling unintelligibly under my ear. I hear Matt's voice, but can't make out what he's saying either, so I give in to sleep again.

  


The next time I wake, it's because my phone is ringing and vibrating against my thigh, and it's _very_ annoying. I'm not sure how I'm coordinated enough to dig it out of my pocket in the first place, but the touch screen is impossible to navigate with my eyes closed and my brain still halfway shut off.

For a moment, I think I dropped it, but I realise that I didn't hear it hit the floor, and that the ringing's stopped, and then Matt's telling me quietly, "Speakerphone, Sugar Plum."

 _"Sugar Plum? That's cute. Who's calling you Sugar Plum? That doesn't sound like Mihael."_ At the sound of his name, the blond stirs, humming questioningly; with my thumb, I trace a rib through his shirt and he settles. _"Are you boys sleeping? Who's answering your phone, Nate?"_

"’S okay, Mom, 's Matt." I'm trying to blink my eyes open, but they're reluctant to cooperate.

 _"_ The _Matt? The Matt that I've still yet to meet?"_ Her tone is teasing, light, but I can hear the demanding undertone.

"Mhm. Sorry. Busy with school 'n' work. I'll bring him to see you…we'll figure something out, promise."

 _"I'll hold you to that."_ Her tone softens, as it always does when responsibilities are mentioned. _"Have you boys been looking after yourselves? Getting enough sleep, eating properly? It's late, have you eaten yet?"_

"I, um, I'm taking care 'a that now," Matt offers shyly. I can smell it, now that he's mentioned it, it's something spicy, and my stomach twists up and growls with want.

 _"Oh, aren't you a Sweetheart!"_ Finally, my eyes open, and just in time to watch the rosy flush seeping into Matt's freckled cheeks. _"Well, you don't seem to be up for conversation,"_ she teases, _"so I'll let you boys go, but you call me back sometime soon, okay?"_

"Okay. Love you, Mom."

_"Love you, too, Sweetie. Buh-bye now."_

"Bye." There's a moment of quiet over the line, then Matt taps at the screen and there's silence. "…You are a sweetheart," I tell him, and his cheeks flush darker.

An almost nervous-sounding half laugh bubbles out of his mouth. "Shut up…" His eyebrows are pulled together and I think he's trying to scowl, but a bashful smile is tugging at his mouth. "…You gonna wake him, or should I?"

"I'll do it."

"Cool, I'll bring everything in." I watch him set my phone on the coffee table and stand, and I want to pull him back down to lay with us, but my stomach growls again, so I let him go.

  


Mihael is a flailer — his mind goes from unconscious to fight mode in a matter of moments, apparently assuming anything that wakes him via touch means to harm him, and calling out to him means trouble.

Waking him means gentle touches and low tones; _never_ shaking him, and typically avoiding tapping or patting him. And it's best to give him a little space.

  


I can hear Matt in the kitchen as I carefully climb off of the blond. I stay standing, just in case I need to move, and lay a hand on his stomach, rubbing slowly. Even so, Mihael startles, gasping loudly through his nose, his eyes flying open and he half sits up, swatting at my hand before I yank it away. "It's okay, Baby, it's just me. It's just me."

"Sorry," he slurs, eyes closing as he falls back with a sigh. "Spider." He pushes a hand up into his hair, his fingers working against his scalp. "Big fuckin' spider. Jumped at me, thought it got me… You okay?"

"I'm fine. Are you?" He nods, his hand sliding down over his eyes to rub at them. "Good. Hungry? Matt made dinner."

"S'posed t' wake me up. Was gonna help," he grumbles, slowly sitting up.

"Yeah, well, if I woke you up, I woulda woken Nate, too," Matt says, striding into the room with three bowls balanced up his arm. In his other hand is a bag of tortilla chips, and three spoons. "You two looked cute. I got pictures."

  


  


I have no idea what's on TV. Every now and then, some sound will filter through my proof-reading haze, but it's so disjointed from the last one that none of them make any sense.

Whatever it is, Matt seems happy enough with it as he's laying on his back, his head in my lap, and his legs across Mihael's, the blond's laptop balanced atop them.

  


It's strange to think that it hasn't always been this way. That almost seven months ago, Matt wasn't lounged across my and Mihael's laps, filling what would have been silence (a comfortable, content silence) with the crunching of tortilla chips.

It feels like things have always been this way. They should have. They _would have_ , if only we'd met him sooner… But he's here now, and that's all that matters.

I wouldn't trade being with them for anything in the world. Sometimes it's as easy as breathing, other times it's like trying to catch your breath after running up five flights of stairs.

It isn't always easy, but it's _ours_.

  



	2. Chapter 2

  


"Busy?" A voice cuts into the quiet so suddenly that my heart jumps up into my throat and my fingers freeze on the keys, fear pinching tight at the base of my spine; it takes me a second to realise that it's Matt's voice, but the tension starts easing as soon as I do.

I look up from my computer; his seat across the table is empty and his laptop's closed — _How long has it been like that?_ — instead, he's hovering near the fridge, an unopened soda in his hand. "Kinda. What's up?"

"I was wondering if I could talk to you. About…stuff." I quirk an eyebrow at him. "I-I mean, like…can I call you my boyfriend?" A weird little something knocks around between my ribs. I don't like it. "Okay, that's a no," Matt says decisively, "I can see it on your face. Is- is it the 'boy' part or are we just not there yet? 'Cause there's, like, Partner, if you like that more…"

I nod at him without even really thinking about it. It feels better, much better. ‘Significant other’ feels too wordy; Nate calls me Lover sometimes, but that's more of a pet name; and girlfriend sure as hell isn't right, it feels 10 times worse than boyfriend did. "Yeah, that- that works," I admit quietly.

Matt beams at me. "Awesome. So, um, pronouns…?"

"They're the same. He and him. I don't like the others, they don't feel right. I…I feel mostly boy, just- I-…s-sometimes I don't." I shrug, nerves prickling hot under my skin. I feel twitchy, feel like I'm being watched, like if I talk about it much longer, or any louder, _He'll_ hear me. My stomach pinches at the thought. "Can we not anymore? T-talk about this? Not right now."

"Yeah," Matt nods, "yeah, that's okay. You feeling okay?"

My heart feels too big in my chest, every too-quick beat filling up the space. My skin feels sticky-hot and too tight, and suddenly aches from old bruises.

I shake my head. I think. I must have, 'cause Matt's stepping closer. " _Don't_. Don't, just- don't touch me. S-st-stay away f-from me. Just talk to me."

"Uh. Oh-okay, um. Did you know that, uh, that silk is bulletproof? Like, a _fuck load_ 'a layers, but…"

Matt talks, gradually picking up speed as he gets into it. He rambles on and on about how he found the fact, how he spent a whole afternoon looking into it, how many websites he checked out, how “it's not actually bulletproof, but damn near”. And I listen, more to his voice than the words, and I stare at him, and remind myself _Matt wasn't there then, I'm not there now_ until everything cools and shrinks and settles back where it's supposed to be.

"…probably pretty expensive now; imagine how expensive it was back then. And if a _pretty big part_ of dude's uniform was an _ass ton of silk_ , that's gotta be pretty pricey, right? The military has a budget. Big numbers, sure, but you bet they made cuts somewhere else to cover that expense. And I'd be pretty pissed if my rations got reduced 'cause Mr. Silk Shirt wants fancy shit. All that's gotta be bad for mor–"

"Matt." His mouth snaps shut, like the sound of his name flipped a switch in his brain. "Thanks."

"Nah, thank _you_ , that shit's been on my mind for _days_." He moves to open the soda, but catches himself as he's digging his finger under the tab — he talks with his hands, and he's been holding it the whole time — putting it down on the counter instead. "…You okay?"

"Yeah, just…" I take a deep breath, filling up my cheeks with it, and slowly let it out.

"Want some help?"

I nod and reach a hand out, and keep nodding until Matt wanders over and smoothes a hand over my hair and kisses the top of my head.

  


  


After a while of quiet, where keyboard tapping has been the only noise, Matt's voice comes from across the table, "…Can I ask you something?"

"If it's another gender thing, kinda rather you didn't."

"It's not."

I take a second to finish my sentence, then look up at him. "What is it?"

"Why d'you like me?" He winces like it hurts him to ask, or he's worried about how I'll answer. I don't mean to frown at him, but the question catches me off guard; Nate's always telling me that I have an ‘expressive face’.

A bony finger of panic jabs me in the gut. I'm not good at this, talking about _feelings_ ; it feels weird, and nine times out of ten my words come out wrong… "’Cause you're an idiot; you're loud, and you're fun, and you're a bad influence…but in a good way. I need that shit sometimes, y'know? I need somebody to remind me to do fun shit. I like that you just don't give a fuck, until you do."

Matt smiles at me, one of those soft, lazy ones that give me butterflies. "Everyone thinks you're some big, scary, badass, but you're not. Well _you are_ , but you're not. You don't start shit, but you don't back down from it. And you're…kinda sweet, in a ‘shut up and let me take care of you’ sorta way… I'm almost looking forward to getting a cold at some point. Bet you get all flustered and ‘I'll make you some soup’, and ‘Let me fluff your pillows for you’."

"Shut up," I snap, but there's no real heat in it.

"What're you like when _you_ get sick?"

"I don't get sick."

"Ah, wunna thooose. ‘It hurts to blink and my arm fell off twenty minutes ago, but I'm _fiiine_!’" He's grinning at me now, eyes bright, and I'd be lying through my teeth is I said I didn't want to kiss him right now.

"Fuck off, Matt," I mutter, a smile on my face. "Are you helping me or not?"

"I'm done. Your notes are all typed up. Check your emails, already sent 'em to you. Hey! We should take a break! A _make out break_! You look like you could use a make out break. I know I sure could!"

He's sitting there waggling his eyebrows and making kissy faces, and I shouldn't laugh, 'cause that just gonna make him do it more, but I can't help myself. "The _fuck_ is wrong with you?"

"I'm bored! Super. Fucking. Bored. We've been sitting here for over an hour, and I feel like I'm dying." Carefully, he pushes his laptop aside, stretching to lay his torso across the table. "Help me." He's pouting at me now, reaching around my computer to pat at my arms. "Honey bunch—" _pat pat pat_ "—Cupcake—" _pat pat pat pat pat pat_ "—Petal—" _pat pat_ "—Baby. Help me—" _pat_ -

I snatch my arms away, leaving them hanging at my sides. "You're really fucking annoying sometimes, you know that?"

"I'm not annoying, I'm _lively_ , and it's charming."

_Dammit he's right._

  


Still sprawled across the table, Matt turns his hands over so that they're palms-up, and makes little _Gimme_ motions until I lay my hands on his. It's an awkward way to hold hands, but oddly comfortable. "In all seriousness, though, Babe," he says, moving his head to lay it on one of his arms, "you should take a break. You've been at this all day."

"I have to go to the store, does that count?"

Matt shakes his head, his sigh turning into a breath of laughter. "No, it does not. But if it gets you away from the computer for a little while, it's good enough…" An almost cartoonish look of horror crosses his face. "I sound like my parents…that's weird. Not a fan 'a that… Alright, let's go!" He gives my hands a squeeze and pulls away, hopping to his feet.

  


  


For a while, Matt walks around with me, saying hi to people who he doesn't seem to actually know, and smiling at their looks of confusion. But after a few minutes, he apparently gets bored and wanders off.

He comes back with a 20-pack box of _Fruit Gushers_ , threatens a kicking and screaming tantrum if I refuse to buy them for him, and throws them into the cart. I take them out the next time he walks away.

I keep waiting for him to come back with more junk food, but he doesn't; instead, however many minutes later, my phone rings, and when I dig it out of my pocket, Matt's stupid face is on the screen. I shuffle to one side of the aisle, trying to stay a little out the way (because people that _don't_ need to be punched in the face), before I answer. "Where the hell did you go?"

"I went to look at toothpaste, but when I came back, I couldn't find you, so I'm smoking out by the car, scaring old ladies. Hey, how come they don't make tutti-frutti Spider-Man toothpaste for adults?"

"You couldn't find me. Really? I'm buying you a leash."

"Ooo, _kinky!_ "

"Shut up," I laugh, watching someone try to carry five kinds of yogurt in their arms. "No, I mean one of those leashes people put on their kids to stop 'em wondering off."

"Hmm, little less into it, now…" I listen to him take a drag from his cigarette…and slowly breathe it out. "…You gonna be much longer? 'Cause there's a nice lady out here that says she'll give me candy if I get in her car."

"Go for it. I'll keep an eye out for you on milk cartons. Speaking of milk…"

"Nah, think we're good." _We. That's…nice. Very domestic. Should I be liking that as much as I am? Probably not. I'm barely twenty; everyone else my age is thinking about parties and flings and hook-ups, and here I am, already living with one boyfriend–_ "Hey. Still there?"

"Huh? Yeah. What?"

"I said — where are you, I'll come back in."

  


When he catches up to me again, he's got another box of Gushers in one hand ("I saw you put 'em back. You didn't think I did, but I saw. I'm _getting_ my Gushers.") and he slides the other into the back pocket of my jeans ("Next best thing to a baby leash, right? Y'know what, no, it's _better_ , 'cause I get to touch your butt.").

  


I buy him the _six fucking dollars_ box as a thank you for typing up my notes. He opens it before we're even out of the store.

  


Back at the car, I discover an already-opened box and three empty packets in the passenger side footwell.

When I lift my head to glare at him, Matt's already smiling sheepishly at me. "You're the fucking worst, you know that?"

"I do know that," he nods solemnly, "and I'm not proud of it… Those jeans look _great_ by the way."

I roll my eyes at him, because _of course they do_ , and pull the door open. " _Wait_. Were you out here smoking to cover up the candy smell on your breath?!"

" _Nooo!_ No no, that was a happy accident. Like I was."

I can feel a smile creeping onto my face, and I try to fight it, but I already know I've lost. "…Just don't leave your trash in my fucking car, okay?"

"Wouldn't dream of it, Gumdrop."

  


  


"So Nate's mom wants to meet me," Matt tells me as we're putting groceries away.

"Yeah? Cool. You'll like her, she's nice. Real huggy, like he is."

"But will _she_ like _me_?"

"Probably."

He takes a break from shovelling fruit snacks into his mouth long enough to squawk at me, " _Probably?_ That's not a yes! You're supposed to say yes. _“Yes, Matt, she'll love you! You're the greatest! Let's make out!”_ Not _pro_ –!" I cut off his rambling by grabbing a fistful of his shirt and tugging him closer and crushing my lips to his.

He's kissing me just as hard, and I hear a _thwack_ of something smacking down onto the countertop, and his hands are gripping my hips, pulling me flush against him. His mouth is sugary-sweet and tastes like fake fruit and he manages to nip my lip as I'm parting from him.

"Will you _stop_ with the make out talk now?" I don't have time to be embarrassed by how breathy my voice is before Matt's shaking his head and tangling his fingers in my hair and pressing his mouth to mine again.

  


My laptop battery is flat by the time I get back to my assignment.

  



	3. Chapter 3

  


With conflicting work and school schedules, it's been about two weeks since I've seen either of them, and I don't wanna say I'm _miserable_ , but I'm definitely not happy about it. A little part of me wants to stomp my feet and pout and whine, _"it's not fair,"_ 'cause they live together and they're seeing each other for at least a while, and I'm stuck in my dorm room with a guy that listens to nothing but 80's House music and doesn't seem to own _a single fucking pair_ of headphones. I mean, sure, _I do_ , but trying to sleep with headphones on is nearly impossible, and good ol' earplugs weird me out. I'm used to hearing _something_ as I'm falling asleep, and apparently even if that something is garbage music, it's still better than _nothing_.

But dude has a keyboard that he lets me use pretty much whenever I want, he keeps his hookups out of our room (or at least when he knows I'm gonna be there), and none of my shit's gone missing, so, I guess there are worse roommates to have.

  


At work that afternoon, I spend the first hour or so of my shift waiting for Mihael to come in and set himself up in his usual booth, but he doesn't show up. Part of me thinks about calling to check on him, but he's missed Tuesdays before, it's no big deal; and we're short-staffed anyway, so I don't even really have the chance to call him.

I'm so busy with…well, work, and looking out for golden-blond hair, that, hours later, I almost don't notice the mop of curly white hovering near the door; he's already smiling at me when I catch his eye, and he hesitates just a moment before ambling over to the table I'm wiping down.

I wanna hug him, but there's shit on my apron. "Hey! What're you doing here? Not that I'm not happy to see you, 'cause I am…"

"Mihael's sick–"

"He is?" My mouth's kinda dry so the inside of my top lip feels like it's sticking to my teeth, and I'm not sure if Nate's half-smiling, half-frowning at _that_ , or the fact I sound happy about Mihael being sick.

His expression turns to more of a smile as he nods, "Yes," he says slowly, like he's not sure what he's admitting to; "So I took the day off; he won't rest without someone telling him to. And he won't admit it, least of all to himself, that he's in no condition to see to his chocolate fix, so here I am…with his laptop in the trunk of the car."

"Are you serious?!" I laugh, too loud for the relatively small diner; a few heads turn towards me, but just for a second.

"I wish I weren't."

  


Nate says he's not in a rush, and sits at the counter, phone pressed to his ear as he waits. For the most part, he's stone-faced and bored-looking, with the occasional hint of expression (usually amusement) flitting over his face. I can't help but wonder what's going on on the other end of the line, but it's not my conversation and not my business, so I don't ask — even when Nate sends a hilariously sassy, "Are you finished?" into the phone.

  


"…ay I'm sorry, because I'm not," he's saying as I'm putting the coffee pot back in it's place. "You need to rest… I'll bring it back to you as soon as I'm done here. I suggest you rest your voice before you lose it; what a shame that would be." I don't know what Mihael says to that (obviously), but Nate smirks at whatever it is, and lowers the phone, tapping briefly at the screen before setting the phone down in front of him.

I raise my eyebrows questioningly, 'cause I can't seem to help myself, and Nate's smile grows and says proudly, "He told me to go fuck myself, then hung up on me."

A loud snort of a laugh rushes out of my nose. "Aaand, you're…happy about that?"

"He's resting his voice now, so, I'm counting that as a win. He has to be… _coerced_ into taking care of himself."

I lift a hand, passing it through the air in front of my face, "These aren't the droids you're looking for."

"Something like that," he agrees. "Dork."

"Hey, no, _Star Wars_ is cool now! So all my “dorky” knowledge now equates to Super Cool Facts, and that makes _me_ Super Cool."

"…If you say so, Dear." He teases, and reaches to pat my hand where it rests on the counter.

About ten minutes later, with a _Best Boyfriend Ever_ peanut butter-banana milkshake in one hand, and two _Sorry You Probably Feel Like A Garbage Fire_ brownies in the other, Nate's getting up to leave; but not before inviting me to come over after work and to stay the night. My heartbeat falters and there's a twist of liquid heat in the pit of my stomach because, “the insinuation”, and _God, he's so…_ , but then there's, _Really, Matt? Did you forget who you're talking to? Chill out_ ; and Nate's looking at me like he knows what I'm thinking…but doesn't really _care_ , as long as I'm not trying to act on it. Which is cool, 'cause if he _could_ read minds, and he _did_ care, I'd probably be in a lotta trouble by now.

A little smile is blooming on Nate's face as I'm remembering that I actually have to answer him. Mind reader. Must be. 

  


  


"How is it that you let us get away with giving you the building code, without also giving you a door key?" Nate says by way of greeting as he's smiling at me through the now-open doorway into their apartment.

I shrug. "I…didn't wanna be demanding?"

"If you don't have a key by the end of next week, remind me." He takes a step back to let me in, and the drinking glasses he's balancing in his other hand wobble a little with the movement.

I follow him in, pushing the door shut behind me. "’Kay. Can I kiss you now?"

Nate nods, smiling up at me, and lets me back him up the couple steps it takes to have his back pressed to the wall. His free hand finds my waist and he stretches to bring still-smiling lips to mine, soft and sweet and slow, and I think that maybe _I_ should be the one leaning on the wall.

He huffs a breath of laughter as our mouths part — another point to the mind reader theory — and slides his arm around my back, hugging me to him. "You taste like cigarettes," he says before I can ask what's funny, "and you smell like sweat and burgers."

"Sorry." I shuffle back a bit, wrapping my arms around his shoulders to bring him with me. "Came straight from work."

"It's okay, I'm glad you did. I've missed you."

"Missed you, too."

  


Nate stands there with me, listening to my stupid rambling — "little under two weeks without you guys, and I was getting all mopey…almost kinda embarrassing to admit…must be some kind of witchcraft…not, like, eye of newt in a cauldron, I mean the real stuff…" — and letting me hug him, even though I could probably use a shower, until a grating cough comes from down the hall.

I feel a sickly jab of guilt when I realise that I forgot– no, I didn't forget, I was just more focused on Nate because he was there when I walked in; and that's okay, that's not favoritism.

Pressing a kiss to the top of his head, I unwind my arms from around Nate's shoulders, and shrug off my jacket, turning to hang it in the hallway closet. "Is he awake? Is he gonna shout at me if I go in there?"

"Why would–? No. He shouldn't really be _talking_ , let alone shouting, but, either way, you should be fine."

"Kiss for luck?" He rolls his eyes, but steps forward to close the distance between us and pecks my chin.

Nate heads to the kitchen as I kick my shoes off and throw them in the closet, too.

  


When I get to the bedroom door, it's quiet on the other side, and even though Nate said that Mihael's awake, I still try to be quiet as I'm turning the handle. As soon as the door's open, Mihael's looking at me, and I can't help but smile. "Hey, sickly!"

The budding smile on his face wilts away. "I'm not sick," he rasps.

"Is that why you sound like shit, and why you're working in bed, in your underwear, _in January_? Because you're _not_ sick, and you _don't_ have a fever?"

His look narrows into a lazy glare. "I was happy to see you, and then you st–" the word catches in his throat and he has to cough it out "…started talking."

"So…I should go?"

There's barely a pause for deliberation before he nods in a ‘get over here’ motion.

As soon as I'm close enough, I duck my head to press a kiss to his bare shoulder — his skin is hot under my lips. "How y' feelin'?"

"Fine; but Nate insists that I have to take medicine," he grumps as I'm settling beside him, my back against the headboard.

"Sorry you're not feeling good, Baby."

I kinda expect him to insist that he's fine, but he doesn't. Instead, he sighs, tugs the tie out of his hair, and drops his head onto my shoulder.

  


Whatever Mihael was working on is abandoned after that. I take the computer from his lap, combing the fingers of my right hand through his hair, and fumble over the mousepad with my left, searching for a movie he's seen before; hoping that maybe he'll let himself fall asleep.

A few minutes into the movie, Nate comes into the room, carrying a steaming bowl, and a little, dark brown bottle. Mihael grimaces at it, taking a swig right from the bottle when Nate hands it to him. _Don't get sick, huh?_ — it's right there on the tip of my tongue, but he looks pretty miserable already, and he'd probably punch me in the throat for saying it; so I keep it to myself, excusing myself to take a shower as Mihael starts eating. _Or is it drinks…? No…if it's just broth, then it's drink… Right? 'Cause it's just the liquid. If there's solids in it, then you're chewing, and that makes it eating. Right…? Yeah… Yeah, that sounds right_.

  


As I'm showering, I'm mentally comparing soup, stew, and chowder…then trying to figure out what soup Mihael had been _consuming_ , based only on the memory of the smell…and then imagining soup recipes that I know I'll forget as soon as I step out onto the bathroom tiles. I've known for a long time that my brain works a little differently — sometimes I can't focus on anything, sometimes I'm ‘fine’, other times I get ridiculously, intensely focused on something and my brain won't acknowledge anything else; and I never really get to decide the intensity or the subject — so spending 15 minutes thinking about soup and it's variants isn't really _surprising_ , but it still makes me laugh.

  


When I walk back into the bedroom, dry but still ‘wearing’ a towel (because soup-brain forgot about grabbing some fucking clothes), Mihael's cuddled up to Nate, head pillowed on his chest, the thin throw-blanket from the couch laid over him; his mouth is open slightly to let him breathe easier. He opens one eye to peek at me, smiling laughingly, and closes it again. There's a nearly identical smile on Nate's face.

"Shut up."

"Neither of us said a word," Nate says, voice a little higher pitched, like it's verging on laughter.

"Didn't have to. Those were ‘Matt's an idiot’ smiles," I tell him, lift-and-pulling the third drawer of the dresser (unofficially my drawer) forward, grabbing a pair of underwear and a pair of sweatpants. "See 'em all the time, I'd know 'em anywhere."

As I take a step toward the door, Nate calls out, "You don't have to get dressed in the bathroom, if you're comfortable here. I don't mind if you don't."

"You sure?"

He nods. "I may not have an art degree, but I can still appreciate a masterpiece."

"You suave motherfucker," I chuckle, my cheeks on fire, the heat creeping down my neck. "That's a hell of a metaphor for basically saying you wanna check out my ass." Mihael's eyes stay closed, but he's grinning now. As I reach for the knot in the towel, Nate quickly diverts his gaze back to the laptop, and I have to suppress a laugh as I turn my back to him.

  


Some time during the second movie, Mihael falls asleep — it's easy to tell because the gravelly, muttered plot critiques have stopped, and been replaced with quiet snoring — so we take the laptop into the kitchen to finish watching it, but it ends up as background noise as we talk and eat reheated (homemade red lentil, not minestrone, like I'd thought) soup.

"I meant to ask you earlier," Nate says, tearing a piece of bread off the slice on his plate, "do you have any plans for tomorrow?" He dips the piece in his soup and pops it in his mouth.

"Nope! No class, and I've got the day off work. Why? What's goin' on tomorrow?"

Nate lifts a hand to cover his mouth, hiding the partially-chewed food in his mouth as he says, "It's your birthday. Did you forget your own birthday?"

"Oops? Guess I've been thinking about other stuff," I shrug, "like soup. Wait. What does that make ramen? 'Cause I've heard people call it a “noodle soup”, but that just doesn't seem right to me. I mean, I guess it has all the characteristics of soup… Buuut that's not what we're talking about." Nate shakes his head, lips pressed together against a laugh. "We were talking about how I don't have plans for tomorrow, but I would like to. With the two of you. If you want."

"I have a nine a.m. class, but I'm free all afternoon. Do you have any idea what you'd like to do?"

"I kinda wanna be really lame and say ‘hang out watching crappy movies, and eat too much junk food’. And I'm talking _Sharknado_ level crappy."

The look on Nate's face is the epitome of _I'm sorry I asked_.

  


  


Through the sleepy brain fog, I can feel the bed shifting, and the warmth tucked against my front shifts with it. My arm tightens around it, and I hear something that might be a laugh. "I have to get up."

The fog thins out a little at the sound of the voice. Nate's voice. He's trying to get up. To leave. But I'm not done cuddling yet. "Few m'r minutes."

"You've said that twice already." I feel his hand on my arm, almost petting me. Feels nice. "I really do have to get up now, or I'll be late." Gently, he lifts my arm, slipping out from under it, and tucks the blanket back up around me. I manage to blink my eyes open, but they sting, and my lids are heavy, and my vision's too hazy to make anything out. "Go back to sleep, Matty," he whispers, and presses a kiss to my hair, and I'm too tired not to.

  


The next time I wake up, Mihael's coughing so loudly that it makes _my_ chest hurt. Getting out of bed and getting him a glass of water is kind of a blur, but I'm much more awake by the time he's sipped half of it away. "Okay?" His labored breaths rattle in his chest, but he nods. "I'll grab the cough syrup. You want some tea? I'm making coffee anyway."

He's still trying to catch his breath as he insists on going to the kitchen with me, to make his own tea. I tell him he has to put some clothes on first. He tries to convince me that he'll be fine with just the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. We compromise — he wears pants and socks, brings the blanket, and makes his own tea.

He takes the medicine without complaint, and sits at the kitchen table, cradling his tea in both hands as I'm leaning on the counter, waiting for my _Pop-Tarts_ to pop, and telling him the plan for the day.

"You're ridiculous," he says, voice grating and airy at the same time, like it's digging its claws into his throat to stop itself floating away.

"Well, it was that, or renting a helium tank, but your voice sounds dumb anyway—" I grin and he flips me off; the toaster pops "—and I think I read somewhere that inhaling too much helium can kill you, so."

He'd said he wasn't hungry, but when I join him at the table, Mihael picks at my food anyway.

  


We're ten minutes into an episode of _Looney Tunes_ ('cause I can watch whatever the heck I want, and it's a _little_ too early to start the crappy movie marathon), when Mihael gets up and goes into the kitchen. He comes back out carrying a big ziplock bag with a gift bow stuck to it, and drops it in my lap as he sits back down. It's _full_ of _Lucky Charms_ marshmallows. "Happy birthday, Dork."

He beams at me when I press a noisy kiss to his cooler-than-yesterday cheek. "Thanks, Gorgeous!"

  


We're just about to start _Dragon Wasps_ when the lock in the door turns over.

Nate walks in with three bags hanging from his glove-covered fingers, and a smile on his face. "I thought you'd both still be asleep," he teases, coming forward to set the bags on the coffee table. Now that he's closer, I can see the pinkness in the tip of his nose, and the slight sheen of balm on his lips. I wonder what flavor it is. "What've I missed?"

"Nothing. Haven't started yet," Mihael tells him, scooting forward to peek into the bags; he dips his hand into one of them and promptly tears open the chocolate bar he takes from it.

We both get a forehead kiss before Nate goes to change his clothes. The second his back is turned, I dump the contents of the bags onto the table and start rifling through the heap. He doesn't look even a little surprised when he comes back and I've got a _Twizzler_ hanging out of my mouth, and one hand buried in a bag of _Fritos_.

  


Mihael laughs so hard at _Dragon Wasps_ that he has a coughing fit, _Piranhaconda_ is total garbage, and I love them both dearly. _Dinocroc vs Supergator_ has been playing for about half an hour when my phone rings, and Nate flinches so hard at the buzz against the coffee table, that his knee knocks into Mihael's head where it's rested in my lap. Nate's laughing as he apologises, and Mihael's muttering something I can't quite hear as I reach for my phone.

It seems like it's gonna be a quick check-in kinda call with my dad, until my stepmom takes the phone. Laura's great, she really is, and I love her, but I _really_ don't care about what went on in her book club last week. I put her on speaker phone so Mihael and Nate have to suffer with me, but they're too preoccupied to notice; Mihael's rolled onto his back and is reaching above his head to poke at Nate's ticklish waist, and Nate, still pinned under my arm, is squirming to avoid his hands. I don't remember the call ending. I think I was too busy laughing at how Nate yelped and almost accidentally flung himself off the couch trying to get away when I joined in the poking.

When he finally manages to escape, he flees to the kitchen and won't come out, even when we promise not to poke him anymore. After a few minutes, Mihael gets up, too, but heads down the hall, toward the bathroom instead, so I take myself boyfriend hunting in the kitchen.

It's not much of a hunt. Nate's standing at the counter, scraping the creme off of Oreos with a knife, and putting the cookie and creme parts on separate plates. "Baby? The fuck are you doing?"

He glances at me from the corner of his eye as I step closer, and leans into me a little when I stand behind him and wrap my arms around his waist. "You don't like cake, so, I'm gutting Oreos and replacing their innards with Funfetti frosting." He smiles when I kiss his cheek, then turns his head to catch my lips.

"I'm not complaining, 'cause that's really sweet, pun intended, and I fucking _love_ Funfetti frosting, but you know you can get birthday cake flavored Oreos, right?"

"I do, but they make those with the vanilla cookies, and you don't like them as much."

"They're good, but they're not _as_ good," I agree, grabbing a couple of the creme discs and shoving them in my mouth.

Nate's telling me that he's gutting the cookies instead of just frosting them because he can't stand watching me scrape the creme off with my teeth, when Mihael carries a neatly wrapped box into the kitchen, and sets it on the table.

I know it's a dumb question, but I can't stop myself asking it anyway, "Is that for me?"

"No."

"Caaaan I open it anyway? And keep what's inside?" I add quickly.

"Guess so," he says, smiling even though his voice cracks.

At some point during the paper removal, Nate abandoned the counter to come stand next to me, and as I'm tearing the tape, I see him share a look with Mihael.

Inside the box is a backpack; it's small and obviously meant for little kids, but I don't give a fuck. It's green, with a fish scale-looking pattern lined in blue, orange ‘spines’ run down the center of it, and there's a little fucking tail attached to the bottom.

"This is the _greatest fucking thing_ I have _ever seen_ in my _entire_ life!" I grab Nate first, kissing him soundly on the mouth and pause just long enough to thank him before giving Mihael the same treatment — I don't care if _I_ get sick, but I don't like the idea of passing it on to Nate.

With the straps loosened up, it fits fine. It's a little small to be much use for school (which is fine; I can use it as a console and charger carrier), and I probably look ridiculous wearing it, but I don't care 'cause I've got a dinosaur backpack, so everybody can eat shit.

"One more thing," Mihael whispers hoarsely, gesturing for me to turn around. I turn my back to him…then hear the zipper, feel the bag jostling, then there's a sharp, plastic-y, _Snap_. When I turn my head to look over my shoulder, there's _a matching fucking leash_ trailing from Mihael's hand to my back. He smirks at me in an ‘I told you so’ kinda way, and all I can do is laugh.

  


I hate to take my backpack off, but it's kinda uncomfortable to sit back while wearing, so I hang it up in the hall closet, next to my jacket.

My phone blows up a while later, while we're looking for a good movie — no doubt with texts from siblings, (half and step, since my sister'll probably be there when my mom calls), and co-workers — but I don't bother checking it. I'm the center of the cuddle; if I move, everything gets messed up, and that's the last thing I want. Eventually, Mom'll call and I'll have to answer the phone, but I'm not moving an inch until then.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me over a month to put this garbage pile together! I can only apologise, and hope you enjoy it. So much so that maybe you'll forgive me in advance for (most likely) doing it again…
> 
> Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated!


	4. Chapter 4

  


It's another three days before Mihael's completely well again, and he immediately sets out to avenge the time lost to his illness, working twice as hard as before, and adding a few more reps to his morning sit-ups; and he refuses to let anyone so much as take his empty glass to the kitchen for him. Matt seems completely at a loss for how to deal with it, and gives him a wide berth, even keeping his teasing antagonism to himself.

It's only a matter of time until his restraint reaches the end of its tether, and when it does, Mihael's favorite, _“Fuck off and leave me alone,”_ will be uttered, and Matt will leave him be. For a maximum of ten minutes, because that's apparently the longest amount of time he can manage. Then the pet names and apologies will start, and they'll go on intermittently until Mihael gets tired of rebuffing him and begrudgingly accepts them, _“just to shut him up”_.

Two days later, I come home to find a very different scene.

  


Neither of them notices when I step into the apartment, and I'm grateful for it: firstly, because my face is surely scarlet with embarrassment, and they'd no doubt tease me for it; and secondly, they'd _stop_ , and I'd hate to ruin their _moment_.

I should go, but I'm frozen in the doorway. At the very least, I should look away, but I _can't_ — Mihael has Matt pinned to the wall with one hand planted on his chest, and a kiss that looks bruisingly intense, his other hand is on Matt's hip, guiding him to meet the sinuous rocking of his own hips; Matt has a hand in Mihael's hair, clutching a fistful as the other slips down to the seat of his jeans and squeezes, hurriedly tugging him closer — they're beautiful together, chaotic and mesmerising… Seeing them this way…it feels like standing at the fringes of a bonfire and staring into the flame, the heat of it seeping deep under my skin, into the pit of my stomach, making it a mess of arousal, and embarrassment, and the sharp thrill of something like panic.

_Or maybe it's guilt, for ogling them during a private moment_. While I'm fairly certain they're more likely to find it amusing than to be upset, the thought is enough to allow me to back out of the apartment; a shiver-inducing moan from inside disguises the sound of the door closing.

  


  


I'm not sure where I'm going until I'm there, ascending the stairs to the seventh floor of the BAC; I'm not sure why, until my nose is flooded with the scents of pencil shavings, and paint, and turpentine.

There are still a handful of other students in the room when I return to it, but beyond glancing over at the sound of my footsteps, they don't pay me any attention.

It isn't until I'm sat down, digging the appropriate pencil case out of my backpack, that the exception makes himself known, wandering over to stand near my workstation. I don't remember his name, but, in fairness, I don't know the names of at least half of the students currently in the room. _Maybe I should do something about that… At some point_. "Hey, didn't I see you leaving a while ago?"

"You might have, yeah."

"So you went home, but came back?" He laughs like he's hearing the premise of a stupid joke.

Pencil case found, I set it on the worktop, beside my sketchbook, and dive back into my bag to avoid looking at him. "Yes."

He doesn't take the hint.

In my peripheral vision, I can see him staring at me, and I imagine I can hear the gears turning in his head — while I consider myself a private person, and the fact that I'm in a polyamorous relationship isn't exactly common knowledge, I'm also not making any sort of attempts to keep it a secret, lest someone think I'm ashamed of it — with his conclusion drawn, he utters a ‘knowing’, "… _Riiiight_ , right. Gotcha," but, unfortunately, doesn't leave. Instead, he lingers to ask, "Soo, that doesn't bother you? That they're, _y'know_ …without you?"

"Not that it's any of your business," I say coolly, looking up at him, "but no, it doesn't bother me. We're all very comfortable with the dynamics of our relationship."

I don't mind a little conversation, and I don't hate people, but they make me so tired. And besides that, I came here for a reason, I came here with a goal in mind, and explaining my relationship(s) to a person who is very nearly a stranger, was not it; so I'm glad when he finally comes up with a clumsy excuse to walk away.

  


Opening the sketchbook to a new page, I close my eyes, and think…remember the sight I'd walked in on…the flush over my skin…the heat in the pit of my stomach…

  


I draw them, in color pencil, as the flame of a lit candle. Their faces are featureless, the wick stands in place of their legs, from mid-thigh, downwards; the lines of their bodies softened some, and colored warm oranges, bleeding into reds where they're furthest apart, and lightening to a brilliant yellow-white where they touch; the space around them remains the off-white color of the paper, the edges of the page darkened by purposely-smudged, cross-hatched strokes of a dull 6B pencil.

It looks so much _softer_ than the scene that repeats itself in my head, and I'm not sure if I like it _for_ or _despite_ the fact. I'm not sure how much I like it at all, but I don't _hate_ it…

Having talked myself out of, then into, and finally, _definitely out of_ doing any more to the piece, I realise that it's grown darker outside, and I'm ridiculously hungry…and everyone else has left.

  


It isn't until I'm leaving the building that I think to check my phone. There's a two-and-a-half-hours-old message from Mihael, [Everything okay? Assumed you're working on something, but wanted to check in anyway]; and one from Matt, sent about an hour ago, [Missed u today]. I find myself smiling as I reply to them, despite the pang in my chest at Matt's message.

  


  


Mihael's reclining on the couch when I get home, working on his laptop; his hair is tied back to keep it from his eyes, and subsequently shows off the multitude of little silver-colored pieces adorning his ears. I notice the slight sheen to his lips when he smiles up at me as I'm shutting the door behind myself. "Hey! How was your day?"

"It was good. Longer than I'd anticipated. I made some more progress with my submission piece, and as I thought I was finishing up, I was struck with inspiration for something else," I explain, shedding my coat and shoes, and tucking them away. It's a fib, but a tiny one, and considering the embarrassment it saves us both, I think it's alright. "And yours?"

There's a very Matt-esque little grin on his face as he answers, "Good. It was…it was good." I manage to bite back a laugh, but I can't keep the smile from my face. "…You hungry? There's pasta in the fridge."

"Starving." A stray a few steps on my way to the kitchen, leaning over the back of the couch to kiss the top of Mihael's head. "Thank you." He tilts his head back to smile up at me.

  


As the door to the microwave pops open, I discover that there's already something inside.

"Um, why…" I start, taking a moment to swallow the laughter bubbling in my throat, and call out louder, "Mihael? Wh-why is there a condom in the microwave?"

"… _Son of a bitch!_ I _knew_ he was up to something!" By the time I've removed the condom from the microwave (something I _never_ thought I'd be doing) and put my bowl in there instead, Mihael's standing beside me, plucking the foil from between my fingers and shoving it into the pocket of his pyjama pants. "That boyfriend of yours is a real weirdo."

"He is," I agree fondly, shutting the door and setting the timer. "Is there a logical-to-Matt reason he's hiding condoms in our kitchen, or is this just a joke?"

"Uh…it's, um…kinda neither, b-but both? I think it's mostly because he thought it'd be funny, but…" Mihael's cheeks are flushed dark pink and he can't quite seem to meet my eyes. "I…we- Matt and I, were talking and…I told him that I…feel ready to, um, tolosemyvirginity," he finishes in a rush of breath.

"Oh."

"Sorry, you probably didn't want to know that."

"No no, it's…nice." He looks at me skeptically. "I meant that it's nice you want to talk to me about it. Your relationship with Matt is sort of separate from yours and mine, and from mine with Matt, but they're not _isolated_ from each other, and I like that."

"Me, too." Mihael smiles down at me, reaching for my hand; I lace my fingers between his. "…So you're okay? I mean…you know it's not gonna change anything between us, right, between you and me?"

I squeeze his hand. "I know, and I'm fine. To tell you the truth, I'd assumed that the two of you were already sleeping together."

"Yeah, I can see why you thought that," he laughs. "I mean, we…kinda were. Are. But not, uh…we aren't…" He reaches up with his other hand, tugging the tie from his hair and combs his fingers through it, gazing into the vacant space above my head. "…I just, uhh…I know we already talked about it, and fought about it… _a lot_ , but that was before we- before we opened up our relationship, y'know, when me having sex with someone else was just a ‘what if’. But now it's real, and I…" Finally, he looks back at me, but I almost wish he hadn't. There's so much suffering in his pale gaze. "…I don't want you to resent me for it."

"I won't, I couldn't," I tell him, lightly shaking my head. "If we'd never discussed opening our relationship, and you went sneaking around behind my back, maybe then…but not for this. As understanding as you've been about my not wanting sex, and all the cold showers you've endured over the past almost-four years — _for me_ , because you _love_ me — how could I be anything but happy for you, now that you don't have to do that anymore?" I reach up to tuck his hair behind his ear. "You deserve to have the things you want; I'm sorry that I can't be the one to give them to you, but I'm happy for you that you've found someone who can, and I mean that."

His answering smile is watery as he bows his head, gently pressing his forehead to mine. I can see unshed tears trembling at his lashline, but I don't mention it. "I love you. I don't say it enough, but I do. I love you so much."

"I know you do; you just say it in different ways…and I love you, too."

  


Long minutes pass before I realise that I haven't heard the microwave beep…in fact, it hasn't made a sound at all.

I hadn't pressed _Start_.

We search the kitchen for more condoms while my food reheats — we both know there's no way Matt would have only hidden one. I find one tucked at the back of the silverware drawer, and Mihael finds two, one underneath an apple in the fridge, and the other inside a coffee cup in the cabinet. Mihael continues searching while I eat, and when I'm finished, I join him.

They're _everywhere_ — between the couch cushions, behind the tv, in a pocket of Mihael's coat, tucked into the cardboard tube of a roll of toilet paper, under my pillow… We end up with a pile of them on the coffee table, but it still feels like we've missed some, so we sit on the couch together and Mihael makes a call.

The phone rings twice before Matt's voice breaks into the quiet of the room, _"Heyyyy, Sweet Pea! To what do I–"_

"How many are there?"

_"I have no idea what you're talking about."_ The laughter in his voice is obvious, and I find myself smiling with him.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about, Asshole." Matt barks a laugh at that. "You hid condoms all over the apartment like some kinda perverted Easter bunny! We've found nine so far–"

_"We? Is Nate there? Hey, Muffin! I missed you today. What were you working on? Can I see it?"_

"Maybe. _If_ you tell us how many condoms are left to find, _and_ where to find them."

_"Knew you'd say that…"_ there's a brief pause, then a huff of an exhale — he must be taking a cigarette break _"…Okay, so, I'm not telling you where they are, but I will tell you that there are five in the kitchen—"_ Mihael closes his eyes and shakes his head despairingly _"—two in the living room, five in the bedroom, two in the bathroom, and one in the hall closet."_

Mihael sighs, but I can see the slightest hint of a smile on his lips. As much as he likes to complain and appear irked by it, I know he loves Matt's moments of ridiculousness almost as much as I do. "Why?"

_"Uh, 'cause it's funny. And, y'know, it's a little irresponsible for you to not have_ any _at your place."_

"He isn't wrong, it's not a bad idea to keep some here," I agree with a shrug. Mihael turns his head too look at me; the expression on his face can only be described as betrayed. I lay a hand on his arm, my thumb smoothing arcs on his skin. "Is there a reason you couldn't just leave a box on the bedside table?"

_"Because that wouldn't have been any fun! And I got bored while Sleeping Beauty was dozing. Anyway,_ mes petite pommes de terre, _I gotta go. Try not to miss me too much!"_

I tell him goodbye, and Mihael grunts at him, and Matt's laughing as he ends the call.

Mihael sits silently, staring down at his phone as he turns it over in his hand. Then, without warning, he's bolting down the hallway. My heart stutters at the abruptness; I wait a moment for it to settle before rising to follow him. He finds six of them — in the shower; the laundry hamper; in Matt's drawer; in the pocket of a hoodie Mihael and I are ‘indefinitely borrowing’ from him; and tucked under the lower right corner of the mattress — in only a few short minutes.

I can't help but wonder how he found them so quickly. When I ask him, he tells me, "Matt said he was bored while I was asleep, so I just had to think about what he might've been doing. He would've gone to shower first, and probably got the dumbass idea while he was passing the hall closet. Went in the room to grab clothes…the fucking cereal box!" He takes off running again and I'm smiling as I'm rolling my eyes at him.

Moments after I step into the living room, Mihael's exiting the kitchen with a shiny, red square between his finger and thumb. He tosses it down with the rest, and empties his pockets, grinning triumphantly at the heap on the table.

  


  


It's hardly late when I decide to call it a night, so I'm surprised when Mihael tells me he's ‘just finishing up’; more often than not, I'll wake in the early hours of the morning to find him still working, and have to drag him to bed. But tonight, I can hear him moving around as I'm brushing my teeth, and he's walking into the bathroom as I'm walking out, and I'm still trying to get comfortable in bed when he comes in and stands in front of the dresser, and starts removing the piercings from his ears.

By the time he's turned off the light and crawled into bed beside me, my skin feels warm with a lazy kind of want, no doubt from watching him remove the sweater he was wearing…watching the hemline inching up…slowly revealing the skin of his back, the waterfall scar cascading from his left shoulder to his waist…

He's barely laid his head on the pillow when I make my request, "Kiss me?" And he smiles, and shuffles closer, and kisses me…kisses the taste of mint from my mouth…kisses me until the flush over my skin settles in the pit of my stomach…until I feel nearly lightheaded…and when he eventually brushes that last, featherlight kiss onto my lips, I find myself giggling.

"What?"

"I don't know."

Mihael laughs a little, too. "You're so weird."

I nod and wiggle closer, scooting down a bit to hide my face against his chest…and fall asleep there, with Mihael's warm breath against my scalp, and his arms tight around me.

  



End file.
